by Ray Smithies
Quite unexpectedly and with impeccable timing, the same dull thumping noise caught the attention of all three men. Carpenter, in particular, was astonished to hear the repeat sound. The direction of the noise was unmistakably the other side of the bluestone wall.
‘What was that?’ called Doyle.
‘Oh, that noise. It’s nothing. Just a sound coming from Stamford’s next door.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Stamford’s is a tyre outlet and occasionally you’ll hear the sound of worn-out tyres being thrown into a pit. I often wondered what that noise could be and then realised they were simply discarding their used products,’ explained Bradbury.
‘Thrown into a pit?’ questioned Carpenter.
‘Yes. Stamford’s has a replica of this cellar.’
‘So Stamford’s and Broadbent’s share part of this original building?’
‘Yes, until Broadbent’s became a business identity around eight years ago the whole premises operated under the one title. Stamford’s followed us by some three years or so and their layout is exactly the same but in reverse.’
‘Mr Bradbury, we intend to search the total premises, so what’s at the back of the warehouse?’ said Doyle.
‘There’s a short passageway leading to a small room behind the kitchen and toilet block. From there a further set of steps descends to a second cellar of similar size, which we use for archives and the storage of shop fittings or furniture pieces.’
‘Very well, Mr Bradbury, then lead the way. This place is indeed full of surprises,’ Doyle said with a hint of sarcasm.
Descending the second set of steps, which like its counterpart provided a narrow steep footing with no reassuring handrail, Doyle and Carpenter could immediately see this cellar was indeed a replica of the other. But despite their striking similarities there was one noticeable difference. This area was in a somewhat deteriorated condition, mainly due to minimal maintenance through lack of use. Excluding the timbered ceiling, bluestone and granite encompassed the entire area, where evidence of poorly mixed mortar had been applied in the attempt to fill some gaping cracks. The cellar had a distinct musty odour and dampness seeped from the walls between the mortar fillings. An old set of Fowler scales and a damaged wooden keg sat on an antique crystal cabinet that was slowly being destroyed by condensation. In a further corner, a once-loved Singer sewing machine stood beside a number of discarded timber wine racks that had long passed their expiry date. The remainder of this assortment was a collection of boxes that supposedly contained the business archives of the past seven years.
‘Mr Bradbury, would you please open these boxes for our inspection,’ instructed Doyle.
Four randomly selected boxes were searched. Not surprisingly, each box provided a collection of backdated paperwork - and the odd cockroach or two. The premises appeared clean, contrary to what Ferret had told them. To the best of Doyle’s recollection there had been no forewarning of their intended visit, let alone the issue of a search warrant. He concluded the Broadbent’s investigation had no unusual circumstances to report.
‘I have one more question. Why a second basement?’
‘I can only speculate that at some point in time there were more but smaller dwellings on this site. I very much doubt these basements were created to accommodate the present building.’
‘Thank you for your cooperation, Mr Bradbury. That will be all for today. We’ll see ourselves out,’ concluded Doyle.
~ * ~
A short walk next door startled the proprietor of Stamford Tyres. The two approaching policemen gave the impression they were on some sort of mission with their lively footwork. After they displayed their badges, Doyle asked for a short moment to inspect the area beneath the workshop.
‘Certainly, detective, but may I ask why?’ queried the puzzled man.
‘We seek confirmation that a certain area exists and want to know its purpose.’
The proprietor led them to the spot that Bradbury had called the pit. The hole in the ground was fenced off for obvious safety reasons and it was immediately apparent that what the warehouse manager had claimed was factual. Beneath a retractable gate was a series of steps descending to the basement where numerous discarded tyres were accumulating. It was a mirror image of Broadbent’s.
‘Tell me, does a second basement exist on these premises?’ asked Carpenter.
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘Just a routine question.’
‘Thank you for your time in helping us clear up a matter,’ acknowledged Doyle to a bewildered proprietor as they departed the premises.
After returning to their car, Doyle pondered the situation. Why had Ferret been so adamant about drugs on the premises? Why had he not phoned through to his employer to inform them of his absence? Would he be home? If not, where is he? Who could possibly support Ferret’s story? This circle of questions yielded no answers and yet one possibility remained - if Ferret’s whereabouts continued to be shrouded in mystery then they would visit Hassan, Ferret’s accomplice in the street trade.
‘Sergeant, forgive my silence,’ Doyle said to Carpenter, ‘but I’ve just been thinking through all the possible scenarios. Contact the station and ask them for the home address of Ferret and Hassan. Were about to knock on some doors.’
The station responded with the information and they decided that Ferret would be the first point of call.
A knock at the front entrance, followed by some repeated doorbell rings, resulted in no one coming forth to greet them. Carpenter decided to check the backyard area and rear entry, despite the persistent barking coming from the resident corgi. Returning to his colleague’s side, he informed Doyle that the house was locked and there was no sign of Ferret. The guy had obviously taken a sicky and bolted off somewhere, perhaps to enjoy the favourable outdoor weather.
A nosy neighbour appeared from the boundary fence as they were retreating to their vehicle. She was a middle-aged woman of foreign extraction sucking on a smoke that was firmly wedged between her lips and wearing a full set of hair rollers. Without removing her cigarette she let out a blatantly obvious remark.
‘He’s not home.’
‘Were well aware of that, ma’am,’ said Doyle.
‘He hasn’t been home since last night.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘I saw him drive out around ten and his car wasn’t in the driveway this morning. Not much gets pass me!’
‘I’m sure it doesn’t,’ responded the detective, ‘Well, thank you for your time, ma’am.’
Carpenter took the wheel and headed in the direction of 23 Anderson Street, residential address of Ferret’s friend Hassan. It was only some two blocks away and still in what many would consider the old part of town.
Hassan’s house was the height of activity, having already accumulated five parked cars. The behaviour from within suggested the occupants were attending some family function. In their approach to the front entrance, Doyle and Carpenter heard Middle Eastern music, including an attempt from certain male participants to sing along in tune. A woman of around fifty years, who was perhaps Hassan’s mother, answered the front door.
‘Ah policeman, can I help you?’ she asked in her broad English, wearing a grin that was reminiscent of a Cheshire cat.
‘Certainly, we’re here to have a word with Hassan if he’s home,’ Carpenter said.
‘Yes, he is home. Please come in. I hope my boy is not in trouble.’
‘No, we need to speak to him regarding the whereabouts of a certain person,’ explained the sergeant.
They were led into a large room, occupied by at least twenty people. Amidst vibrant noise and jubilant celebrations, two women rushed over to force food upon them.
‘No, thank you, were on duty,’ said Carpenter, whose response drew little or no reaction.
‘To refuse is to insult,’ Hassan said from behind Carpenter. ‘Please eat and then we’ll talk outside where it’s quiet.’
; ‘What do you call this food?’ Carpenter picked up what appeared to be a green saveloy.
‘It’s called dolma, which is made from grape leaves stuffed with cooked rice, lamb and onion, and marinated in olive oil and lemon,’ offered Hassan.
‘Sounds delicious.’
‘The dish is very popular in the Mediterranean region. This particular recipe has been handed down from my mother’s side of the family for many generations.’ Hassan was pleased to see the two officers were now helping themselves to a second serve.
‘Very nice,’ complimented Carpenter.
‘Help yourself to some Turkish coffee and water on the table and we’ll take our drinks outside and talk.’
After retreating to an outside gazebo, it was Hassan who directed the first question. ‘So what’s this all about, officers?’
‘We’ve just paid Broadbent’s a visit and Ferret hasn’t fronted at work. He failed to report in ill and there’s no sign of him at home. Would you happen to know his whereabouts?’ asked Doyle.
‘Not at this very moment. I last saw him at home around nine last night.’
‘That coincides with what his neighbour told us. She claimed Ferret went out about ten o’clock and hasn’t returned since. Does that strike you as being somewhat odd or even out of character?’
‘Not really. Ferret can often be out all night. My guess is he drank too much and has crashed the night somewhere. He’s probably got a hangover today and has decided to sleep it off. One thing seems strange, though. He usually does his serious drinking at the weekend and not when he’s working the following day.’
‘Any idea where this somewhere might be?’
‘No idea. He didn’t mention last night about going out later. So why all this sudden concern for Ferret?’
‘For starters, we know he’s in deep with this drug organisation,’ Doyle said. ‘We’re also aware of his contact in Charlie and the demands the syndicate place upon him.’
‘Yes, I’m aware that your Detective Forbes gave him a grilling at the station. We do talk to each other about these matters you know.’
‘Your reasoning may well be correct about his drinking bout, but there’s a degree of concern within our ranks that Ferret has got himself into a corner. To what extent is anyone’s guess.’
‘Until recently the syndicate volunteered little information about their operation,’ Hassan said, ‘only ever giving instructions regarding our clientele base and the expected weekly returns. Charlie would only discuss business with Ferret and never with me for some unknown reason. But more recently this same drug dealer advised Ferret they intend downscaling their southern operation and there was something about a big dude called the Keeper visiting Pedley during the carnival celebrations. Apparently this one’s the head of the whole syndicate who lives in the city.’
‘We’ve been told of his intended visit,’ said Doyle.
‘What scares me,’ Hassan said, ‘is that we’ve been told about important matters that are not our concern. I would prefer not to know. If something was to go wrong or there was a leak, they couldn’t point the finger at us.’
‘What can you tell us about Broadbent’s?’ asked Carpenter.
‘Not sure what to make of that place. I mean, they seem to run a legitimate business and yet something doesn’t seem right.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Charlie seems to come and go at will, although he generally calls when Ferret’s working back at night.’
‘Go on,’ Doyle encouraged.
‘I’ve sometimes hung around waiting for him to finish and seen Charlie suddenly arrive and call for Ferret outside. Neville Bradbury, who’s the manager there, has seen Charlie interrupt Ferret’s duties on more than one occasion, but he chooses to ignore their little get-togethers. I mean, most bosses wouldn’t allow that sort of behaviour.
‘You would think not,’ Doyle said.
‘Sometimes I get the impression that Charlie and Neville know each other, but it could just be my imagination.’
‘Interesting observation,’ responded Doyle. ‘Tell me, Hassan, would you have any idea where Ferret may be?’
‘I can think of only three places, so give me a moment and I’ll phone them while you’re here.’
When Hassan retreated to the house to use the landline, Doyle and Carpenter discussed any further possible lines of questioning. Was Hassan being truthful or was there a possibility he could be withholding a vital piece of evidence? At what level was his true knowledge of the syndicate? With Ferret’s potential absence, would Hassan resume his role?
Returning with a disturbed frown, Hassan said, ‘Nothing. All three places have not seen him. Now I’m starting to worry.’
‘Who else do you know of in this syndicate operation?’ prompted Carpenter.
‘Charlie’s the only person I’ve seen, but there’s been talk of some other men called Mick, Sol and someone called the Piedpiper.
‘Could you identify the one called Charlie?’ Carpenter asked.
‘That’s difficult because it’s always been nighttime and the guy wears a long coat and a hat pulled down over his face.’
‘Have you been totally truthful with us in everything that has been discussed today?’ asked Doyle.
‘In every respect, detective. I have no reason to feed you bullshit. Ferret and I are there to support each other. You have made it clear it’s not the guy on the street you’re chasing. It’s the big players you’re after, which hopefully will lead to the arrests of those responsible for all these recent murders. I would appreciate you keeping my name out of this.’
‘Very well. Is there anything else before we finish?’
‘There’s one piece of information which might be of interest. I’m not sure if it’s important, but the Piedpiper apparently has a lover living in Pedley.’
‘What? You’re pulling my leg,’ Doyle said with a smile.
‘I’m deadly serious. I overheard Charlie telling Ferret about it some time ago.’
‘A bit like Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun, you could say,’ interjected Carpenter.
‘That’s an interesting comparison, given his lover may well be privy to some of the Piedpiper’s operational secrets,’ stated Doyle.
~ * ~
In room 23 at the Sunseeker Lodge, Paul Marsh stood in front of a full-length mirror studying his own reflection. Dressed in light-blue denim and sporting a three-quarter-length, black, Italian-leather Giantenni coat, the detective was satisfied with the image he saw. Now in his thirty-fourth year, he still projected fitness and a confidence level that hovered somewhere between cockiness and empathy. A splash of his favourite cologne and now he was ready to visit the captivating Hungarian beauty.
Tonight would be special, for Piochsa had offered to cook dinner for two on the condition that a bottle of black Sambuca would manifest itself. George, her flatmate, had been called away interstate on business and the Esplanade was not in need of her services on this particular evening. Yes, the night that lay ahead had all the ingredients to be memorable.
At seven pm Paul Marsh arrived at the Finch Street address with a bottle of Shiraz and the Sambuca in hand.
The front door was instantly opened by a welcoming hostess. ‘Good evening, Paul. I see you’re determined to tantalise my taste buds tonight.’
‘Of course.’
Piochsa led the detective through to the lounge, an unusual but functional room. The decor reflected a vintage art deco theme - its straight lines were complemented by a series of wall-mounted coastal landscapes painted by local acclaimed artist Naomi Ferguson. The traditional L-shaped living quarters boasted a small dining room, superbly decorated for the anticipated cuisine. On a wooden, oval table a central flower arrangement took pride of place. Two highly polished silver candlestick holders and a collection of fine bone china sat proudly awaiting what would undoubtedly have a cognoscente’s seal of approval. Tonight Piochsa had spared no expense to impress her detective.
‘A can
dlelit dinner,’ Marsh said. ‘How romantic. Something smells good in the kitchen.’
‘Uh-uh, no peeping, Paul. Can’t spoil the surprise.’
Pre-dinner conversation was mainly small talk - the weather and forthcoming carnival festivities. Marsh could sense that Piochsa’s contribution was too careful and meticulous. She needed to relax and not worry too much about a constant flow of conversation. He realised and appreciated that she was determined to host the perfect night. It was time to intervene. A drink was in order to shake off the anxiety.
‘Where’s the bottle opener? I’ll crack the red.’
‘Try the drawer behind you, Paul.’